


What Are Big Brothers For?

by CleverLines_Unread_CleverNapkins



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Big Brother Dean, Cars, Family, Family Feels, Gen, Little Brother Sam, Teenagers, Young Winchesters, broship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 20:42:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/904698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CleverLines_Unread_CleverNapkins/pseuds/CleverLines_Unread_CleverNapkins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It all starts when Dean tries to teach Sammy to drive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Are Big Brothers For?

**Author's Note:**

> hey, so this actually was supposed to be a cute little brotherly fluff, but it became way more angsty as my stream of consciousness continued. 
> 
> Oh well, I still like it

"Okay, Sammy, now easy on the clutch - " 

The car lurched forward violently, the tires screeching on the pavement. THe heavy black muscle car only jumped a bit, but the two passengers inside flopped back hard in their seats when it stopped. The driver, no more than fifteen , sat with a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. In the passenger side sat the teen's brother, who sat sideways in the bench seat, a muscular arm braced on the dash. 

"Geez, Sammy, take it easy! This is an antique," the older of the two said. His mind was silently cataloguing the probable damage this little session was causing the car. 

"It's Sam," the driver said weakly, thumping his head on the middle of the steering wheel. Almost immediately, the horn sounded, loud and shrill in the Texas air. Sam jolted up, his brother laughing from his right. 

"Whatever. I'm done," Sam said, unclipping his seatbelt and opening the door with a squeak. 

"Hey, hey!" Dean called after him, throwing his own belt aside and following. 

Sam crossed the front of the Impala, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on the cracked pavement of the parking lot. Dean traced his brother's steps for half of the lot. 

"Sammy!" he called. Sam didn't stop. If anything, he walked faster, scuffing his shoes against a stray rock in his path. "Sam," Dean tried again, but the boy continued on, shaking his head as he slid the motel key-card through the lock. Dean slowed to a walk until he finally stopped altogether. The door to their shared motel room swung shut, Sam disappearing into the other side. Even from where Dean was standing, he knew that Sam had slid the deadbolt home. 

The older brother cursed loudly, startling a young mother walking with her baby nearby. The woman shot Dean a dirty look which he ignored, instead turning his back on both the woman and his little brother, stalking back towards the car. Sam had left the Impala running, the keys still in the ignition, radio still softly playing. Dean slipped into the driver's side easily - like stepping back home after a vacation - turning the radio up and pulling out of the parking lot in one swift motion. 

This was one of the only times John had left either of his sons with his beloved Impala. Hell, John cringes nearly every time Dean even offers to drive, never-mind that he's been driving for years now. And now that Sammy was growing his wings, Dean figured it was about time his little brother learned how to handle the wheel. Of course, when Dean had voiced this to John, he was immediately shut down. 

Sam was fourteen when Dean had first asked John. They were on a long drive, from a small town in Nebraska where John had burned the bones of some poor sap, up to Bobby's in Sioux Falls. Sam was asleep in the backseat, his head thrown back, the book he purchased from a little store down the street from their room open and spread across his chest. 

Dean had let him go to the store to get it after an hour and a half of listening to him complain about bad t.v. and being stuck in stuffy motel rooms. He hadn't put the book down since. 

When Dean had brought up the subject of Sammy driving, John had swerved, nearly unseating his son. The oldest Winchester got the Impala under control like a champ, slowing his speed and turning narrowed eyes on his eldest son before watching the road again. 

"Why would Sammy need to drive?" he said, "He's only fifteen." 

"Fourteen," Dean corrected automatically. 

"What?" 

"Sam's fourteen. He'll be fifteen in May." 

John grunted, "Even better. Sam doesn't need to drive yet. That's what he's got you for, right, Dean-o?" 

His father had slid his eyes to the passenger side, watching Dean in a way that almost dared him to challenge his father's opinion. Dean didn't. Instead, he had nodded, pointing his flashlight back to his lap where an old frayed roadmap laid. The only other sounds that night were Dean's soft directions, the crackling radio going in and out of stations as they passed, and the low rumbling of the engine. 

John's answer bugged Dean more than he'd admit, and for weeks after their first "discussion", Dean would casually bring it up; when Sam wasn't around to hear it, of course. If Sam was around to hear the way John responded, or how angry Dean got over the answer, he would either tell Dean that he didn't want to drive and he was alright just riding for now, or he'd start confronting John in his brother's stead. Neither of which Dean was comfortable with. So, he kept it private, where and when he knew Sam would never hear. 

Sam's birthday came and went and Dean stopped asking, but that didn't mean he forgot. He was simply biding his time. It wasn't that Dean looked forward or even liked the idea of deceiving John - it went against almost every fiber of his being - it was just that Dean didn't understand his father's decision. 

John taught Dean how to steer a car at thirteen. He could rebuild and dismantle and engine at fourteen. Dean was driving John home from hunts, sometimes to healers and dealers, when they were necessary or his father was too busy to go himself. Having Sam drive would just be easier for everyone involved, he could be independent. 

Sam wouldn't be dependent on things like food and Dean wouldn't be about going out for a while, that he'd come back to find Sam had walked miles across town in bad weather just to get a bag of chips from the store. 

Maybe he wouldn't feel so guilty about having some sort of life. 

Maybe John would even take Dean on a hunt with him. 

Today was the first day Dean had sat Sam behind the wheel and, well, it hadn't gone as smoothly as Dean had hoped. Sam's coordination of gearshifts and clutches was lacking in ways that Dean never would have imagined from a boy who could shoot tin cans straight through from two-hundred yards away. Dean refused to believe that Sam's Titanic-sized failure that morning had anything to do with Dean's ability to teach. 

When Dean pulled up at the motel forty-five minutes later, his arms loaded with bags of greasy burgers and fries from the nearest chain, he was feeling a bit more optimistic about Sam's driving ability, telling himself that it was just first-time nerves. Dean hadn't had it when he learned simply because he had understood the mechanisms inside the car - knew the order in which the parts had to be moved, the corresponding switches and plates. 

The motel room door gave way under Dean's elbow. Sam had unlocked the door; it was a good sign. Dean stumbled over the threshold, just barely keeping the food from falling to the floor. Kicking the door closed dropped the bags on the rickety table. 

"Foods up, Sammy!" he called. No answer. 

Dean narrowed his eyes as he moved further back into the room. The teen's hand went immediately and instinctively to his waistband, feeling for the gun his father had left him with and cursed. That gun was currently sitting in the compartment under the Impala's front seat, his arms too loaded down, his mind too preoccupied with the afternoon's events to remember something that should be common knowledge by now, as fluid as breathing. 

John would have killed him if he was there. 

Dean kicked himself now, as he looked around the room again, placing the bags of food down silently. 

As Dean crept down the length of the room, he tried to think of any signs that could be interpreted as supernatural near the hotel - cold breezes, freak storms, lights flickering, sounds crawling up the walls - and came up with nothing. He had been on lookout. Which means that had anyone broken in, they would be just regular people, the most common of thieves. 

And if regular people broke in while Sam was home, Dean would not be surprised to find the thieves handcuffed and unconscious in the bathtub, his little brother lounging on a bed reading a book to the tune of bad pay-per-view. 

Speaking of bathtubs, as Dean neared the door to the bathroom, it swung open to meet him, nearly smacking him in the face. From behind the door, a head of brown bushy hair emerged with a flippant, "Food?" 

Dean nodded, watching his little brother cross the motel room, wrinkling his nose at the greasy bags on the table, as Dean tried not to show he had almost just had a heat attack. Sam picked through the food and took only one batch of fries out. The gangly teen reclined back on the musty red couch, skillfully avoiding the mystery stain neither could fathom where it came from on the back, keeping his batch of fries from spilling. He picked up a discarded novel, the front torn slightly where it spend too much time stuffed into a too-full bag, picking up where he had left off and absently picking through the fries. 

Dean watched his little brother, collecting himself before clapping twice and walking to the still steaming pile of food. "Alright, Sammy, what do y'a say to a quick round two behind the wheel before it gets too dark?" 

His little brother didn't even look up, "Nope."

Dean stopped in the middle of shucking his jacket, one arm still trapped, "What d'you mean?"

"I mean, I'm not getting back in that car until Dad comes home." 

Throwing the leather jacket down, Dean leaned on the back of the couch. He stared down at his little brother, who couldn't be bothered to meet his eyes. "Sammy, you can't just stop - you have to learn these things. It's important." 

"Why?" he said, slamming his book closed and glaring up at Dean. "I'm not even legal yet. No one else my age drives, why should I? Why is it so important?"

Dean opened his mouth to answer, but Sam beat him to it. "No, let me guess: Dad wants you to teach me. He wants me to drive so you don't have to be here with me and you can join him on his insane quest. Or even better, I'll be the designated driver. Yeah, you two can run in to kill some vampires while I circle the block. I can see it now; the two of you hanging out of the Impala's windows, shooting down creeps while I motor it down the highway." He scoffed, re-opening his book, "No thanks."

"Sammy, Dad didn't -" the older WInchester tried again, but Sam had picked up the t.v.'s remote, clicking it on and blindly flipping to an old action flick. Dean tried to grab the remote but Sam snatched it away too quickly, tucking it safely between the cushions behind him. "Sammy.." he groaned. 

Sam didn't look up, "No way, Dean." 

Launching himself away from the couch and snatching his food up, Dean left the room muttering about annoying little brothers. The small partition sectioning the kitchen from the living area was sliding shut when Dean's ears pricked up. 

"And it's 'Sam', Jerk!" 

***.*.*.*.*.*.***

Dean put the receiver back on the phone cradle with a jingle. The phone cord was stretched out to the max across the small kitchenette from where it was plugged into the wall. The old phone rested mutely on the scarred wooden table. 

He twirled the retractable cord around one finger as he leaned back in the chair. Dean focused on his breathing, the in-and-out rhythm, pushing down both the panic and relief at not having any messages. 

No messages from John meant that there was still some time to teach Sam how to move a car more than three feet at a time; but, the more time that passed without so much as a phone call, the more doubt that was allowed to creep into Dean's mind. It wound its way into the deepest corners of his mind, the darkest thoughts that he tramped down and locked away every night before he fell asleep. It was the part of his mind that told him that John was never coming back; that something, somewhere had finally got him. 

It told him that he and Sam would sit and wait in this crappy motel until Dean's card ran dry and they'd be forced to leave. Forced to start all over again, make new lives. Only this time, without their father. 

The very idea terrified Dean, his heart rate speeding at just the thought of it. 

He cursed to the empty night air, walking the few steps over to the sink. The water was cold on his fingers, making them numb in only a few short seconds. It was a little twisted, Dean supposed, to want it that cold. To feel the adrenaline pump that much harder as he turned the handle, making the conscious decision to numb one's hands, to feel the icy shards ram into the delicate skin. To take one short, always too short, breath before forcing the water onto one's face. 

Dean did it again and again, the tap loud in the dark room, his hands just getting enough feeling in them between splashes to make the cool burn sting again. Each time he brought his hands up, cupped full of water, the moonlight reflecting gracefully off of it, he held it to his face a split-second longer. 

Not breathing or blowing, just resting. 

Each time he took his hands away, watching the then-skin-warmed water fall with a _slap!_ on the porcelain, Dean felt better. 

With one twist of his wrist, the elder Winchester stopped the water, rubbing one of the scratchy motel towels over his face. He turned to face the dark motel room, his green eyes zeroing in on the blanket-covered lump on the bed. Sam slept all scrunched up, cacooned away from the world, just the slightest tuft of hair sticking up. 

As Dean padded across the room back towards his own bed, he couldn't help the soft smile that pulled at his lips. 

If John didn't call, if John didn't come back one day, they'd be alright, Dean thought. They'd find Bobby, if he'd take them. If not, Dean was old enough to work. They'd make it. 

And if John did make it back alive, the Winchesters would be back together again. Business as usual. 

John would take the harder cases solo, the ones that would take him out of town, and bring Dean on some of the others. Whenever Dean hunted with John - those very few times - it was always a ghost stuck in a cycle or a bored poltergeist. A quick cut-and-dry case that John's seen hundreds of times, could resolve in his sleep, cases that would take a night at the most. Where Sam could either spend a few hours holed up in a motel room next to a fully stocked refrigerator and armory, else John would park the Impala down the road from the mark and Sam would sit inside for the little while the other two would be gone. 

But, if Sammy could drive...

Sam's earlier words floated back to him. If John came home and saw that Sam was self-sufficient - could drive himself to school, to the store - then Dean could be there. Dean could accompany John on the long hunts, work alongside him rather than under him. 

Dean felt a smile pulling at his mouth as he tucked himself into his own bed. With the promise of a real-life hunt blossoming just behind his eyelids, he closed his eyes. In the darkened room, Dean rolled to his side, shoving his hands underneath the pillow, slamming into the feel of cold metal there. 

Dean shot up, his hand closing around the object on instinct, dragging it out. 

By the time Dean's eyes adjusted a few seconds later, he felt entirely too stupid to have not realized what it was before: rough grip, his fingers slotted against the handle easily, a full magazine weighing in his hand, cold metal of the slide glinting at him. Dean sighed, winging his legs over the edge of the bed, the gun geld loosely between his legs. 

This gun, this Glock 21, was a tangible reminder that his fantasy was just that: a fantasy. 

John trusted Dean enough. 

Enough to take him on a few hunts. Enough to take care of Sam. Enough to give Sam a normal life; or at least, the most normal life he could have in their situation. Getting him to school, getting him home, getting him settled in each town, making sure he ate, that he brushed his teeth, that he replaced the salt lines when he comes home. 

With so many people and things out there, Dean was Sam's last line of defense. 

Sometimes his only. 

Dean lifted the pillow, replacing the Glock where he found it. He slid back below the covers, flipping the blanket over him. It took Dean a long time to get comfortable again, and it was only after resolving that he would teach his little brother to drive. But _only_ it that was what Sam wanted. Maybe a new day would give Sam a new outlook. 

And even if Sam learns to drive, Dean's not going anywhere. 

After all, what are big brothers for?

**FIN**


End file.
